Jo Clayton - Shadow of the Warmaster

Rising-falling moan filled with fear and rage.

“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. The Divine One spake unto your Ollanin thus: It has come to me that the merm beds and the rosepearls are a State resource. It has come to me that it may be wrong for such a resource to remain in the hands of Families, not the State. Be warned, O Kisil, thus the Divine one spake, I will cease my wondering for this moment, I will not act as my heart requires if I am not stirred to it by thy unruly importunities.

“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. And then it was that the Divine one cast at the feet of thy Ollanin the two of them whose hearts had rebelled. And then it was the Divine One spake again: Take these and let me not see them, let me not hear their names, let them be as nothing in my sight and thine.

“Sim, O Kisil, sim sen. Thy Ollanin have come to thee in sorrow, ashes in their hair and heart, thy Ollanin say to thee, we have failed thee, what is thy will?”

The Stentor folded his arms and stepped back. Robes pulled tight about them, cowls drooping over half-hidden faces, the Ollanin started down the stairs. When they reached the pavement, the crowd in the Circle, silent, impassive, gave way before them, opening a corridor so they could cross the Circle and pass into the Fekkri. They didn’t wait for an answer, they wouldn’t get it then; that was coming three days later. Karrel Goza and Geres Duvvar wouldn’t bother coming back to hear it. At least the City Ollanin had tried to help, that was more than the Fehdaz had done. He was old and sick and about to die, his sons had died before him (there were rumors about that, how they died and why, Incers were very nervous about the character of the next Fehdaz), his grandsons and the Nephew were all there waiting like vultures, no one in the place bothering their heads about anything else.

Karrel Goza counted the coins in his hand, closed them in his fist. “Gidder’s should be open by now. What about a beer?”

Geres Duvvar slipped his watch from its pocket, clicked it open. “Do we have time? Old Niffiz is getting touchy about checking in.” He shut the watch, shoved it back. “He’s Immel. He’s got a thing about us in Goza-Duvvar-Memeli. You don’t want to give him an excuse to boot us, not the way things are these days.”

“May he fall in yunkshit up to his honker.” Karrel Goza put the coins away. “Let’s get back. That wormy old skink won’t give an inch.”

4. Ayla gul Inci/Waterfront/one year and six months after the return of the petitioners.

The bay was gray and leaden, an echo of Karrel Goza’s mood. He took out the notice, reread the single line of print. His head throbbing with resentment and fear, his body cold and sick with the horrible emptiness of failure, he tore the paper into small hairy pieces and dropped them into the water. One breath he was angry at Geres Duvvar for holding onto his job with Sirgыn, the next he was dead ash, wondering how he was going to tell the Ommar he was a drag on the Family, not a support. Out on the bay he saw boats coming in. He straightened, stared. He’d played in these waters when he was a baby; when he was older, he’d taken girls out sailing if he could talk a cousin into lending him a boat; he knew enough of the sea’s caprices and her moods to understand what he was seeing. There was a bad blow coming. He watched the gray waters heave beneath the pier and hated her, Mother of Storms, treacherous unfeeling bitch, stealing from him his last respite from shame. He had to get back to the House and help tie down for it, no time to get a little drunk to pillow the pain. He cursed softly, bitterly, cursed Sirgыn and the Huvved, the Kabriks and their obsession with new products, the mushbrained Imperator and his mushbrained advisors, the Fehrazes and the Fehdazes, the city council, the sneaks and most of all the alien slaves who made all this trouble for workers.

“They are that.” A girl’s voice.

He swung around. “What?”

“You heard. What happened, you laid off?”

He looked her over. She was small and dark, brilliant eyes, not exactly pretty, but coming into a room she’d be the first you noticed. The fine wandering scarlines on her arms were very white against the dark gold of her tan. A Dalliss. No one ever completely tamed a Dalliss even when her diving days were finished. His mouth curled down with dislike, but he touched eyes and mouth and spread his hands in polite acknowledgment of her presence. “Blessings, Dalliss.” He turned and started past her.

“Oh my, the little man’s soul is bruised.” She closed her fingers about his arm, said, “You’re a pilot. I need a pilot.”

“For what?” Disgusted with the leap of hope he couldn’t help, he pulled free. “Storm coming. I’m going home.”

“Couple hours before you need to start tying down. Stop a while and give me a listen, you might like what I’m going to say.” She stepped back from him, swung herself onto a bitt and sat kicking her bare heels against the agatewood, watching him with a hard bright expectation that sent warning tremors along his spine.

He lowered himself to the planks and sat with his legs hanging over the edge, his back against another bitt. “Job?”

“Not for taking home to Ommar. We could come up with some coin if you’ve got to have it.” She swept her arms wide, waggled her small slim hands as if to say you can have what you want, it doesn’t matter long as you do the thing. Whatever the thing was.

She had beautiful hands, he noticed that with a small jolt of surprise, delicate, supple wrists. And fine ankles. Like a lot of women these days, she’d taken to wearing trouserskirts, wide-legged things made out of the new yosscloth, its silky flow clinging to her legs in a way he found exciting. The top she wore was a tube knitted from black kes yarn, it had a square neck, no sleeves, she wanted to display her arms with their scars, the badge of her achievement. Used to be pearlers wore long sleeves and lace mits to hide the merm marks. Not this one. He found himself approving her pride. He looked away, frowned out across the heaving water. “Just tell me what it is.”

“Remember Jamber Fausse?”

He started, went still. “Why?”

“Show you I know a thing or two. You lifted him South after he hit the Fehraz Ene Karrad’s strongroom and dropped half the coin to the Kiks that Karrad pushed off his Raz. You’ve been a busy little man the past few months.

The cold was back in his bones; he stared at the water and said nothing.

“No need to sit there shivering like an ishtok out of water, Karrel Goza. This isn’t a noose about your neck. If you don’t want to fly for us, forget it.”

He turned his head. She was leaning toward him, hands braced on her knees, taut, eager, willing him to accept the proposition she hadn’t yet made. He was interested; it would be immensely satisfying to hit back at something instead of going meekly home to mama., “Same sort of business?”

“Not quite. This could get you killed. The pilot we had before is in Saader’s Cleft. No, the bitbits didn’t drop him there. He died. We didn’t want some asslicking official eager to make points getting curious about how that happened. He was shot, bad, but he got us away and the ship home before he died.” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “He was…” Impatiently she scrubbed the tears away. “Could happen to you. So?”

“You’re the ones.”

“What?”

“You’re the ones that hung the Nephew naked from the minaret. Painted insults on him hair to heels. I wondered how someone got him there without being caught. You fixed him up in his paint and harness, I suppose, and waited until Ruya and Gorruya were down; then you dropped the noose over the roofpeak and left him dangling. Ktch! your pilot must’ve had Pradix’s hand on his neck to operate blind in that battlerose of winds.”